


if it's entrails you're after, here's all mine

by kuro49



Category: Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bottom Jason Todd, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Blood, Sub Slade Wilson, batfam kinkmas 2020 treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: For a crash course in kinky knife play, this probably isn't what Jason had in mind.For a crash course in anything at all, he wouldn't be thinking of Slade Wilson.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	if it's entrails you're after, here's all mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jasontidds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasontidds/gifts).



> a treat to my sub slade buddy who asked for knifeplay ;) sorry this isn't even that sub of slade 😔

Slade's guiding hand in everything is steady.

And this is no different at all.

When he presses the handle of the knife into the center of Jason's palm, Jason's fingers curl around it in reflex. He recognizes it as the same one that Slade keeps in the thigh holster worn under his Deathstroke suit. The blade always pressing flushed to his underarmour, warm from Slade's flesh just beneath that.

"What's this?"

Jason doesn't like the expectation in Slade's eye.

"My knife."

"I can clearly see that." Jason bites out, his hand still wrapped around the handle of the knife where it sits, perfectly weighted and balanced in his grip. He doesn't show Slade the way his hand shakes around it. Not ever if given a choice at all. "So, why the fuck are you handing it off to me."

It has never been the weapon but the intention in the wielder. And the only intention Jason can see here is the bad kind.

Jason doesn't get to have someone who will fuck him and have it end at just that. They always want to hurt him too. He really should have seen this one coming given all the times he's been a witness to Deathstroke's work.

The straight edge of the blade is devastatingly sharp. Jason waits for that blow.

However, when Slade's answer comes, it is sounding jarringly casual: "I want you to use it on me."

Jason stills.

Because—

" _On_ you." Jason repeats with skepticism clear in the furrow between his brows. For a crash course in kinky knife play, this probably isn't what Jason had in mind. For a crash course in anything at all, he wouldn't be thinking of Slade Wilson.

"Should I be worried that your hearing's going before mine, kid?"

"What are you supposed to be then, a _masochist_?" He spits the last word out like it personally offends him. And it probably does. Given what's he been through.

Maybe Slade is just insensitive in all this.

"You can call me whatever you want, Jason. My request hasn't changed, and you can always say no. You get a choice in anything you'll do with me."

Or maybe, he's on to something.

Jason wonders why he entertains any of this at all.

They've fucked a handful of times before, and there's no expectations to it when he fumbles or he begins to cry uncontrollably, all rattling shoulders but eerily silent, or even when he freezes up altogether while Slade is buried inside of him still. Slade never looks at him with pity or disgust or that very special kind of cruelty that makes a man's eyes glint with glee.

When they are fucking, Slade never even pauses long enough to falter in his pace. Pulling back long and slow, pushing in deep and hard. It's how Jason wants it, it's how he likes it.

And he's never ever been made to beg for it.

There's never any kind of humiliation even when he knows the man can ask for it.

Maybe that is all of the reasons why that he does this for Slade.

The man is lying back against the headrest of the shitty double bed. They are in one of the back rooms of the compound that's really more of a hole in the wall. It's cooler here where they are underground but there is still that inescapable humidity from the sweltering heat of South America permeating in the contained space.

Slade is shirtless and Jason is in a black tank top.

Slade takes the knife from him for a quick second and makes a clean cut, high up on his chest, drawing a line of blood. And Jason watches as it beads red. His head barely counts to a total of five and he can watch the way Slade's body stitches itself back together until only the blood remains, running a thin trickle before it stops altogether.

"You can't hurt me any more then I can instill fear into you." _You've already had everything done to you_ is what Slade effectively means. He keeps going. "Your turn."

And this here is the real test when he turns the knife's handle back towards Jason.

It's not fear. After all, he's hurt people before. 

It's control. It's about being given it in whole, learning it in steps, and being okay with it when all is said and done.

Jason starts with drawing the back of the blade over Slade's skin. It doesn't cut, not even skin deep.

The metal is cold against the heat of Slade's chest, Jason holds it steady even as the muscle shifts the barest amount as Slade's chest expands with the long drawn breath that he takes in.

The back of the blade is dull but it leaves a mark nonetheless even if it is gone as quickly as it is made.

"That's it, kid." Slade tells him, and the encouragement feels like a great big vat of acid coming to a boil eating away at all the inhibitions Jason might otherwise have. It is not a moan, not by any stretch of the imagination but the low rumble that comes out of Slade's throat is pleased, is pleasure, is wanting more of what he's being given a taste of. "It's just like a gun."

That seems to be the same lesson Slade keeps teaching him.

Jason grazes the edge of the knife against him, scraping across Slade's bare skin. He does this a few times, and he can bodily feel Slade's anticipation mounting as he stays sitting straddled on top of him. Knife in hand, Jason turns it in his grip so it's the sharp smooth edge being placed to skin.

He tests the give, the way Slade's skin parts for him.

"It's all about respect."

Slade doesn't explain any further than that. Because this is a pull within him, one that grows stronger and stronger like an itch he can't get to.

And Slade isn't accustomed to that.

No, not at all. It's why he asks.

Jason draws blood this time, and Slade moans like it's something exquisite to feel anything at all.

Jason doesn't have to understand it to enjoy it.

It's both the control and the lack of it. It's him being on the other end of the knife and not being the one to be dismantled at the seams. His hand never shakes, and Slade never flinches away. It is putting one decent memory over top a bad one. It is cutting out a patch of carpet stained with old blood down to the underlay.

A little bit rudimentary but it does work.

No matter how ugly it looks.

Slade has his arms stretched up above the headboard, and Jason makes a cut to the triceps, watches as the blood starts flowing. Following the concave of his armpit to track down along Slade's side. And then the fresh red is seeping into the threadbare white sheet covering the thin mattress beneath them.

"Make yourself feel good." Slade says, what he doesn't say is that you deserve that much at least.

Jason grinds down on Slade's erection where it is pressed against his ass. He also leans forward to swipe his tongue across a fresh cut made to the inside of Slade's arm.

The first action is for Slade, the latter for himself.

It's warm and viscous and tasting a salty tang. It's his hips jerking to rut his own erection against Slade's abdomen still smeared with drying blood.

"Don't need your permission." Jason murmurs, reaching back with one hand while the other keeps the knife to Slade's skin, wraps his fingers around Slade's cock in a grip that isn't gentle at all to guide the head to his entrance. At the same time, the pointed tip of the blade makes nicks over the spot where Slade's heart is supposed to be.

"No, I guess you don't, boss." Slade's mouth curls viciously, and his grin barely even falters when Jason sinks down without any prep at all.

A groan, another little nick that is healed over in the next breath, and Jason taps the blood-slicked knife against Slade's chest as he rasps out.

"That's right, old man. You're the one who needs me here."

He's got his wires crossed.

Like a rat's nest and in all the wrong ways.

The very basis of what should feel good is foreign to him. The way it distracts and clouds his mind. The way it leaves nothing alone. He wants it to be impartial. He wants it hard and harsh, and maybe a little bit mean to wipe the history from his skin.

Jason's hands are smeared red with Slade's blood, he's so practiced in handling a weapon like this that the knife never even slips in his grip.

"You look like a proper mess."

Jason comments with the indent of his teeth down against the swell of his bottom lip. A righteous sense of _I did this_ with Slade under him, bracketed between his thighs. There is blood all across Slade's chest but no open wounds underneath. The shallow break in skin healing almost as quickly as Jason makes them.

Jason rides him with his fingernails digging in, the bitten edges all jagged and rough. Dropping down each time with force, keenly feeling the sensation as Slade carves him wide open on his cock.

It's the only kind of hurt that he takes willingly anymore.

The way it scrapes him raw, keeps him on a teetering edge where he can't tell pain from pleasure when they are all intermingled together. 

And there's half a thought here that maybe this is what Slade chases for when Jason is breathing around the fullness in him, around the crown of Slade's cock spreading him out, splitting him in two, scraping against his prostate each time he rises up on both knees.

The other half comes when he is blinking away the white from his vision, grasping at what goes on behind the request that Slade places wholly into Jason's hands.

"And you sound proud." Slade answers with one hand on Jason's hip, in the midst of creating a finger-painted map of where he's been when he's tracking his blood all over Jason's skin. The other reaching out to rub at a nipple over the thin fabric of the tank top until it's standing erect even through the shirt. "I like that, kid."

His one eye is half-lidded, and Jason recognizes the thrill in it, the heat in it, and the way Slade roves his gaze all over him. It makes him tighten up, squeezing down like a vice to hear how Slade sucks in a low breath from between his teeth.

"You like this more." Jason slides the blade across, makes a shallow cut that Slade gets to feel in full with how slow he goes.

"Yes," Slade answers, and he is shameless about it, "I do."

The fresh spill of blood has them both feeling something akin to an emotion or two.

"You have until I come." Jason tells him, shivering when Slade doesn't let up, keeps bulling him over his clothes until he is breathing hard enough to have it fill the small space between them. His body looking obscene where he sits above him with his shirt molded to the peak of his hard nipples.

He renews the force of each drop, takes Slade's cock all the way inside of him until the harsh grind of the blunt head of his erection against the deepest part of him is the only thing that Jason still registers. Jason is chasing his own end with only the barest regard for what Slade wants, and they are both okay with that.

Slade tightens the hand he's got on Jason's hip, brushes his thumb back and forth over the litter of uneven scars, leaving streaks of crimson in his wake. He isn't lying when he says: "I can work with that." 

Jason rewards that with another cut into Slade, his mouth curving wide enough to distort even the carve of the _J_ over his cheek. 


End file.
